


who's got time to watch an explosion

by beardsley



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=636467#cmt636467">this prompt</a>. Five times Steve and Bucky communicated without using a single word, and one time they did talk and it was accidental verbal sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who's got time to watch an explosion

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy, anon!
> 
> I can't believe I titled a story after "Cool Guys Don't Look at Explosions". Thanks to **haipollai** for coming up with three of the five scenarios, and for supporting me while I ranted about how there really should be more fic about Bucky and Steve being badass mofos blowing shit up.

i.

Forty seconds until the explosion Steve pulls Bucky in by the leather strap around his shoulder. It gives a soft creak against the leather of Steve's glove, and it's all the noise in the abandoned HYDRA base and it echoes off the high ceilings and walls, and they won. The thing about working with Bucky again is that now they always win. They're clockwork, a fine-tuned instrument, and sometimes it's enough that Steve just wants to drag Bucky close and lean in, in, in.

Bucky shakes his head, stopping Steve in his tracks, but the corner of his mouth is curled up in the faintest smirk that speaks volumes in a language only the two of them know. So Steve takes his hands off Bucky and follows him out of the base into late afternoon Croatian light, follows him towards their jet and only stops when Bucky signals for him to stop.

Steve checks his watch. Fifteen seconds.

Four seconds, and Bucky is sneaking his hands around his waist to pull him close and closer. Two seconds, and Steve fists his right hand in the short hair at the back of Bucky's neck. He chases Bucky's mouth in time with the base exploding, all roaring fire and shock wave after shock wave, and none of it compares to the way Bucky drags him closer still by the collar and they're kissing like too-eager teenagers. Against his mouth Steve can feel Bucky grinning and on his back he can feel the heat of the fire.

And then it's over, almost as quick as it started. There is no time to celebrate the way they'd like, but Steve has an inkling the locker room showers back home will see some action.

It's another hour before the jet's radio comes alive with a loud crackle and Daisy Johnson, sounding mighty pissed off, asks if they're alive and planning to check in any time soon.

~

ii.

'This is all very experimental technology,' Tony says for the thousandth time. 'I shouldn't even be here. Lesson for you, kids, never owe Nick Fury favours. The guy's like the most terrifying cigar-crunching creepy uncle you've never had, and —'

Steve tunes him out, paying more attention to the — is it a jetpack? Would Tony be gravely offended if he heard Steve refer to it as a jetpack? — strapped to his back, and next to him Bucky looks a little nauseous. They are miles and miles above ground but it's the closest they can come to the AIM Island without setting off their many and sundry radar sensors that, under international law, would expose the whole operation for the borderline terrorist act that Steve knows it to be.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

He's more worried about the way Bucky is eyeing the ramp as it opens, howling wind nearly knocking them over. Bucky seems a little blue around the edges. There is a tightness around his jaw and he looks anywhere but at Steve, anywhere but at the dark grey clouds covering the sky and obscuring any view they might have of their destination.

'— and once you're on the ground you'll have to disable all the trackers embedded in the gear, because they will be just as likely to be picked up by AIM, and we all know risking an international incident is a pretty big no-no —'

Steve grabs Bucky's arm, fingers curling around his right biceps. There are two many layers between them for him to feel Bucky's pulse, but he can imagine Bucky's heart racing anyway.

'Are you listening to me? Jesus, you two are like Bonnie and Clyde on some — oh god, please don't kiss where I can see. I need plausible deniability. The world needs plausible —'

There's no need. Bucky doesn't twist out of Steve's hold and after a moment, after he looks at Steve's wide grin and reads it for the confession that it is, his shoulders hunch only a little and he's ready. He's ready and Steve doesn't wait for the nod Bucky won't give; he pulls Bucky along and down the ramp, cold wind screaming all around them, and they jump.

~

iii.

The firing range is empty this time of night, silent and echoing and dark and everything Steve needs. He doesn't have much of a sleep schedule; times like these, he's glad for it. Junior operatives, hell, even experienced operatives who should know better, always stare. There is nothing like being treated with a mix of reverence and well-meant condescension ('Well, Cap, this might be a little out of your league — wouldn't you prefer to start with a Luger? We have a few antiques in the armoury, might be helpful.') to remind you that, ultimately, you don't belong.

Steve picks up the first gun on the left and moves on automatic, head filling with the echoes of each sharp crack that tears through the silence when he pulls the trigger. Again. Again. Reload; and again.

Four rounds and then he switches to a semi-auto. Everything is still quiet, but there is a shift in the air and Steve doesn't have to turn to know who it is: there is only one person who can sneak up on him without making him tense, his body used to responding in a very different way.

Bucky only lets out a low whistle when he sees the target riddled with bullets with little precision or finesse. If their roles were reversed, Bucky would probably have had more fun with the practice and shot in lewd patterns — Steve knows all about that from the drawings Bucky sometimes leaves for him in the sketchbook in Steve's bedside drawer.

Now, though, he walks up behind Steve and without warning wraps his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Steve's shoulder. It throws off Steve's aim and he has to shift his balance, just a little, to accommodate Bucky's weight at his back. Steve can't help but lean into him. (Just a little. Bucky knows him and he knows what it is that Steve needs, and he knows it before Steve does.)

Before Steve can reload and start firing again, Bucky reaches up to cover his hands with his own. He's not wearing gloves, and the heat of his skin goes through Steve like an electric shock. It's tempting to let himself close his eyes and just — feel, but then Bucky is gently kicking Steve's legs wider apart into a more comfortable stance and they are pressed close together, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, chest to back.

Steve's breath is coming faster and he can feel Bucky adjusting, both their heart rates evening out.

He pulls the trigger, silence breaking with en echoing crack, the recoil pushing him back against Bucky's chest. Bucky takes his weight easily.

The bullet has gone clean through the centre of the target.

Steve readies the next shot, feeling himself start to smile.

~

iv.

The visuals come in long before Steve is ready to take the drop, and he watches on the screen as Bucky tries and slowly but surely begins to fail to hold out against a barrage of next-gen HYDRA AI battle droids. He would be able to take out ten, twenty. He'd still survive forty. Sixty, though?

Steve waits for Sharon to steady the jet and pulls the ramp slide as soon as he knows he won't break his neck in the fall.

'Go rescue the poor loser, Cap!' Sharon yells, and Steve throws her a lazy salute.

Bucky might be a loser, but he is Steve's loser.

The jump rattles his bones, but Steve is up and running before his body has the time to process any pain. He grabs the shield and calculates the best angle for optimum damage, throws — it connects, ricochets, connects again and again. That's four droids before Steve even reaches Bucky, and just in time, too. He sees the moment when Bucky runs out of ammo, reaching for his knives as the guns clatter to the warehouse floor.

Steve whistles and doesn't wait for Bucky to turn; he throws his own sidearm and Bucky's left hand closes around the grip with terrifyingly perfect timing.

He doesn't have to announce himself in any other way. By the time he's inside the warehouse Bucky is ready and waiting and they fit right into rhythms as old as the war: back to back, together, and no one else stands a chance.

~

v.

Bucky steps out of the hotel bathroom tense, the discomfort obvious in the set of his shoulders. He spreads his hands and rolls his eyes when Steve gives him a frank once-over, but manages to contain himself before he does a girlish twirl. The tuxedo fits him perfectly, but of course it fits him perfectly; a lot of money was invested to ensure that this undercover assignment would go as neatly as possible.

Still, Bucky's bow tie is undone and when Steve frowns, he rolls his eyes again.

Right.

It would be a waste of time to ruin the line of Bucky's tuxedo, so Steve takes his hand to pull him in. The black leather of Bucky's glove is already warm from the heat of his skin and he takes a step closer, then another, until he has to tip his chin up to keep looking Steve in the eye. He's all stubborn challenge, all rakish charm, but his smile is soft when Steve reaches up to take the ends of the bow tie and Bucky bites his lower lip as he watches Steve tie it.

The fabric is smooth as silk in Steve's hands. His fingers brush the dip in Bucky's collar bone as he's folding the tie, and again when he pulls one end over the other. Bucky breathes out a sigh, low and intimate, as his eyes drift half-shut and he sways just a little closer to Steve. Steve is in no hurry, taking care to make sure the edges are even and the tie will look presentable. He loops the folded ends over and tugs, carefully, to secure the finished product.

Bucky follows the pull of Steve's fingers until they are pressed close enough they're breathing the same air. It would be the easiest thing to lean in, the easiest thing in the world.

Instead Steve takes a step back, letting his hands slide down the front of Bucky's pressed shirt.

He raises his eyebrows, nodding an invitation: _after you_.

For the third time Bucky rolls his eyes, but he obeys and they are ready to go.

~

vi.

('You have to use the wide channel,' says Nick. 'You might be the dynamic duo, but teamwork is still teamwork.')

Bucky's voice cuts through the silence over the comms, crisp and precise: 'Bluejay to Eagle — enemy victor in pursuit on your six, got a fifty-cal on the hood.'

There is no time for Steve to turn around and check; the bike is purring beneath him but it's pushed to the limits, and he still has to catch up to the Red Skull's car. 'Can you take out the driver?'

'I can shoot through his little finger.'

Steve can hear the crash, screeching of tires and the explosion and he doesn't have to see to know Bucky delivered. He always does. 'Good aim there.'

'I'm shit hot and you know it,' says Bucky, low and warm and intimate.

'Yeah, I do love you for your rifle — why, got any other useful skills?'

There is a smirk in Bucky's voice and Steve knows exactly how that smirk feels pressed against his skin. 'I'm told I clean the barrel real nice.'

Steve laughs. 'Oh yeah, heard all about that.'

'I'm uncomfortable,' Clint announces from the jet overlooking the chase. 'Not sure why, but I'm uncomfortable.'

'Wanted us to verbalise,' Bucky points out. 'We're verbalising.'

'I think I'd rather you shut up.'


End file.
